My schoolday sporting triumphs were not exactly momentous. Games were not my favourite activity. But at the tender age of 10, I became the proud owner of a dark blue enamel badge shaped like a shield, bearing the words 'First Prize Sports'.

It was awarded for my prowess in the three-legged race. Somehow, a friend and I succeeded in remaining in step and co-ordinated for the duration of the course, whilst those competing against us all fell over. We were the exception to prove the rule that if one leg is tied, progress is all but impossible. We'll return later to that theme.

Meanwhile, for ten years now, I've been leading the journey around the Stations of the Cross in All Saints' every Good Friday morning. The stations are depicted on plaques spaced in the normal way around the church, and we move from one to another in turn. The simple, austere service includes a brief Bible reading and a response at every station. 'We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you: because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.' At some stations there's also a brief meditation or a hymn. Afterwards we share hot cross buns and coffee.

The plaques were in St Alban's Church on Warwick Street until it closed, when they were transferred to All Saints'. I looked at them more closely today. They're made of plaster, with very sparing use of colour: gold and red for the halo around the head of Jesus, and gold for the cross. Gold for other occasional details too, but everything else is white, against the background of a dark blue sky.

Today I'm particularly struck by the cross. It features in every one of the plaques, a sort of leitmotif threading the story together. It's there, ready and waiting, in the first plaque when Jesus is condemned (see photo); it's still there in the final plaque, small and in the background, as Jesus is laid in the tomb. As one would expect, it's much larger and more prominent in most of the plaques in between. It's a reminder that for Christian people, the Cross is inescapable: inescapable for Jesus at the heart of our faith - 'He was crucified under Pontius Pilate' as we say in the Creed - and inescapable for us, called as we are to 'deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow' Jesus. 

Two years before St Alban's was built, the Rev E B Pusey, a noted leader of the Oxford Movement, preached a University sermon at Oxford entitled 'Christianity without the Cross: A Corruption of the Gospel of Christ.' It includes these words:
'Real self-renunciation is in all things, and as one tied by one leg may walk for miles, but quit not the spot where he is tied; so one unrenounced evil habit keeps the soul Satan's prisoner, that he cannot follow Christ.' 
Pusey makes the point that true discipleship is not the renunciation of one vice along with the retention of another, but a complete surrender of self. Otherwise we're as hampered in our walk of faith as if we were tied up by one leg.

Of course, it's a counsel of perfection; an aspiration that few if any of us will achieve. If by the grace of God and the exercise of our will, we overcome some particular sin, we soon become aware of another - or fall prey to pride at our success. Perhaps the desire and the effort at least to be facing in the right direction is the best we'll manage most of the time. Seeking to run in a three-legged race with our sin is unlikely to get us very far very quickly - but let's at least make a start.

My attention was caught the other day by the news that a violin bow, discovered in mildewed case in a garage during a house clearance, had been sold for £3600. It was of interest because I knew its former owner: the late Fr Hugh Theodosius, my predecessor as Vicar of Billingborough.

It set me thinking about the possessions we put away: because we don't need them at present but might do so one day; or we don't want to dispose of them yet; or we simply haven't got around to getting rid of them. Mostly the items are of no particular value, but occasionally we read of the discovery of unexpected treasures - such as the bow.

Unused possessions are one thing. Eventually the time will come for them to be sorted through and perhaps sold or given away for someone else to use. Antique shops are full of such items. But what about the hidden treasures in our own lives, I wonder? What about the unused potential within us, the gifts and talents which could enrich us and others but which currently lie dormant?

St Matthew, in his Gospel, recounts extensive teaching of Jesus during the brief time between his triumphal entry into Jerusalem and his arrest. Part of that teaching is what we call the Parable of the Talents (25.14f) in which a man entrusted to each of his servants a number of talents - ten, five, and one respectively. A talent was about ten years' wages for a working man. Those entrusted with ten and five talents made use of them, and doubled their value. The servant entrusted with one talent buried it in the ground.

At first sight it appears to be a parable extolling the virtues of capitalism, but it almost certainly isn't intended to be so. More likely, it's based on a current story of a ruthless wealthy man - perhaps one of the ruling sons of Herod the Great: Archelaus, Philip, or Herod Antipas. (The instruction to the servant with one talent, that at least he should have banked the talent to gain interest, is telling - that would have contravened Jewish law, something Herod's family did frequently.) The real point of the story is to be prepared for the unexpected coming of Jesus, just as these servants prepared or failed to prepare for the return of their master. Accountability and the making use of what we have are part of that preparation.

We assume the story is told to teach us to be ready for the coming of Jesus by making full use of the gifts and abilities we've been given. Certainly that's a valid interpretation, and a constructive one which we should heed. 

But it may be that Jesus was also articulating his own need to be ready for the unexpected; for his arrest, trial and crucifixion. Whilst he couldn't know for certain when or even whether this would happen (I believe that because Jesus was fully human, he had to live by faith without any extra knowledge), he sensed it was looming ahead in the near future. He had to be watchful and prepared, and would soon give account for his earthly life. If he needed to remind himself through this and other parables, how much more should we heed what he has to say.

We enter a tiny village high on the Ethiopian plateau - just a few thatched huts. Sue, our guide, calls out at the doorway of one of them, and a young woman appears, carrying a small boy. She invites us in, and we sit on rugs around the edges of the single room. A small fire burns in the centre. Against the far wall, seed is stored in two large clay jars.

The formalities over, we're asked whether we'd like coffee, and of course we accept. The coffee ceremony then begins, an important ritual in this part of the world. First of all, incense is put into an incense burner. The sweet, heady scent soon fills the room. Then some coffee beans are taken and roasted; the roasting pan is brought towards each of us in turn so we can savour the aroma. The beans are crushed using a pestle and mortar  and put into a special coffee pot, a jebena, with water. This is put onto the fire to boil. The coffee is decanted back and forth into another container, and eventually it's ready for us to drink from small handle-less cups called cini. It's rich and black, and tradition dictates we must have three cups. Whilst we drink, there's plenty of time to relax and talk - a key component of this ceremony.

This occasion - and there were other similar ones - was particularly memorable because of the aromas of incense and of coffee, and their association with social time and relaxation. The smell of roasting coffee and of a particular sort of incense evoke the memory of that place and those people. Thinking more widely, I've been reminded of one of my grandfathers whenever I've smelt a particular brand of pipe smoke.

St John recounts how Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, anointed the feet of Jesus with pure nard, a very costly perfume, and then wiped them with her hair. 'The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.' It's one of only two direct references to smell I can think of in the Gospels, the other being Martha's concern a little earlier at Lazarus's grave: 'Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.' No doubt the contrast is deliberate, illustrating death and resurrection through the sense of smell. But it also serves to associate Jesus, and the action of Mary, with the nard.

There's undoubtedly a reference here to the Song of Solomon, a book which is both an erotic love-song and an allegory of love for God. 'While the king was on his couch, my nard gave forth its fragrance' (1.12). Mary is expressing her devotion to Jesus and proclaiming him as king, foreshadowing his triumphal entry into Jerusalem the following day. And who knows - maybe that action of Mary inspired Jesus to wash the feet of his disciples so soon afterwards.

Perhaps St Paul was familiar with this incident. Writing to the church in Corinth, he used the imagery of fragrance and the way in which, unseen, it nevertheless overcomes all else around us in an evocative and memorable way. God in Christ 'through us spreads in every place the fragrance that comes from knowing him. For we are the aroma of Christ to God ...' It's both a statement of what is and a challenge of what is to be: that others should be able to sense our faith through our lives. 

I've just been doing some cooking. Nothing very exceptional - my cooking skills are quite basic - but it does help to keep me from going hungry. 

There's something therapeutic about food preparation when one isn't in a hurry or entertaining to impress. I know there are kitchens which are stressed, but mine isn't among them. The process of washing, peeling, chopping fruit and vegetables - genuine slow food - gives time to observe the colours, feel the textures and smell the aromas.  Handling what comes naturally out of the earth puts one back in touch with what it means to be human in an age which frequently threatens to dehumanise us. Preparing food is something real.

I did something else real today, too. I spent most of this morning gardening (it's my day off). Gardening is another activity which has its own pace, slower than the pace at which we tend to live. Like cookery, it's a therapeutic occupation, and an opportunity to be genuinely and quietly observant. The smell of the damp earth, the sight of the spring flowers, the company of the nearby robin are all reminders of our own place in creation. Here, rather than the urban wilderness, is where we belong - at least for this life. Here is reality.

When I was a curate, our house was heated - if that isn't an exaggeration - by storage heaters. The gentle heat was ideal for proving dough, and I took to making bread regularly. It's a wonderfully tactile thing to do, quietly satisfying, and again it brings what is real into the present moment.

Jesus looked around and spoke of God through what he saw; through the real things of life. Through birds in the air and through farmers sowing seed. Through lilies in the field and through fish in the sea. Through the sights and incidents we all too frequently overlook as we press on with what seems to matter most - but usually doesn't. It was a sacramental approach to life, looking at and beyond the visible to see revealed a greater meaning, a disclosure of God and of God's grace.

Jesus was the outward and visible sign of God's presence - a true sacrament - and never more so than during his Passion. The costliness of God's suffering love was made real and credible through his human life. As we journey through these days towards Good Friday and eventually Easter, we too are called afresh to be an outward and visible sign of the presence of God - the Body of Christ, as St Paul calls it - so that others, being with us, may experience something real - and know that they too belong.

Meditation: The Entrance to my Heart 

Whilst out walking yesterday afternoon, I observed how a shaft of light from the low sun lit up a broken white gate. The gateway was fenced off, the track so overgrown as to be all but impassable, and a large grey puddle added to the difficulty of gaining any access.

I reflected how easily we're tempted to put up barriers to close our hearts to the presence and love of God: barriers such as pride, greed and selfishness. Yet however well-developed our defences are against the coming of Christ, such things are ultimately no obstacle. Once our attention is caught by the paradox of the king riding in humility, by the faith and joy of others, by the quality of his love which suffers for us without limit, the path of his coming is made level and straight and we're called and compelled to receive him.
   
The entrance to my heart is all but blocked,
The royal entrance for the coming King.
The path is overgrown, the gate is locked,
And wired over; weeds are flourishing
Where feet should pass, whilst barbs of wire, spread
Across the width, deter all entry here,
And fetid swamps and ruts make treacherous tread.
'Twill guarantee no royal guest appear.

The entrance to my heart is tightly bound,
Yet crowds along the road 'Hosanna!' cry
And strewing cloaks and branches on the ground
Proclaim the blessed Coming One is nigh.
The way's prepared and straightened; all must part
Before the King in crown of thorns arrayed
And purple robe, to captivate my heart
With sacrificial love and grace displayed.

'That was so beautiful.' 'It was really moving.' The appreciative comments came one after another as people left church this morning. Somehow, we'd experienced the beauty of holiness and the tears of... who can describe what?

The tone was set right from the start, as the Choir sang the hauntingly beautiful Introit from Durufle's Requiem with sensitivity and passion. The music, words, silence, drama, place, people, and sacrament integrated together, providing a door through which our souls could enter the heavenly places, and tearing open our hearts to the Holy Spirit. How many had this experience I don't know, but I've rarely had so much or such positive feedback. Of course we can never plan to capture the presence of God in this way; it's pure gift. All we can do is set the scene as best we may, through prayer, through musical rehearsal, through liturgical preparation; attend, attentive to God in Christ; and if the tears flow, accept them as the work of God to bring us healing, repentance, consolation, or whatever our need may be.

Today is Passion Sunday - Passion meaning suffering, and specifically the suffering of Jesus. The mood of worship shifts from the self-discipline and self-denial of the last few weeks towards a conscious journey with Jesus to the Cross - and beyond. Next Sunday we'll shout both 'Hosanna' and 'Crucify him!' and during the week after, stripping bare the altars and following the Stations of the Cross, we'll experience the place of desolation and paradoxical hope. 'Their heart cried unto the Lord, O wall of the daughter of Zion, let tears run down like a river day and night: give thyself no rest; let not the apple of thine eye cease.'

So we face both the beauty of sacrificial love and the tears it evokes. Tears of Jesus at the grave of his friend Lazarus. Tears of the woman washing his feet. Tears of Peter at cockcrow. Tears of the blessed Mary as her heart was pierced by a sword. Tears of Mary Magdalene as she visited the grave. Tears of the sorrows of the ages which resonate with the sorrows of our hearts and of our world - this vale of tears.

But as today's Psalm reminds us, 'they that sow in tears shall reap with songs of joy.' So shall it be.


Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those beauteous feet,
which brought from heaven the news and Prince of Peace.

Cease not, wet eyes, his mercies to entreat;
to cry for vengeance sin doth never cease.

In your deep floods drown all my faults and fears;
nor let his eye see sin, but through my tears.

(Phineas Fletcher, 1582-1650)

The Royal Leamington Spa Bach Choir are performing an exciting programme of music for choir, orchestra and organ this evening at All Saints' Church.  Conducted by Nigel Stark, the Bach Choir welcome organist Colin Druce and soloists Claire Seaton and Michael Bundy to perform Poulenc's energetic Gloria, his Organ Concerto and Dvorak's Te Deum.

The performance starts at 7:30pm tonight (Saturday 16th March) and tickets will be available on the door.  More details at RLSBC's website.

'Yes! We can do it - please', she said. There was a note of desperation in her voice. 'I've spoken to my father.' 

I refused, politely but firmly. This was not a good time. I was standing, shoes in one hand, holding up my beltless trousers with the other, two people away from the airport scanner and with a queue behind me. It was too late.

I was in a provincial airport in Ethiopia, about to board an internal flight. Since arriving an hour or so earlier, I'd visited her shop three times. Amongst the mass-produced tourist items - brightly woven fabrics, ornate wooden crosses, decorative metal crosses, and much else - I'd spotted an old Abyssinian thurible, dirty, battered, in need of repair. It was solid brass, very heavy (unlike the modern tin ones in the photo), and with bells on each chain. And like the other items on display, the asking price was ten times what it would be elsewhere in the country - and elsewhere, one would haggle.

I'd offered a good price. The young woman in the shop had refused it outright. Prices were fixed, she said. It was her father's shop, and she couldn't change them. Maybe he'd be in later. I thanked her politely and left.

Half an hour later, there was no sign of him and no change. She said she'd phone him.

Twenty minutes later, I called in again. There was still no progress. And then my flight was called.

The result? Three disappointed people. I was disappointed not to have been able to make the purchase. Her father was no doubt disappointed not to have made the sale at a price which I knew to be more than fair. She was disappointed to have lost a customer and, I suspect, to have let down her father. It wasn't an enviable situation from anyone's point of view.

How do we cope with disappointment? Do we get angry? Sullen? Upset? Bitter? Do we shrug it off and hope for something better in due course?

The Old Testament King Ahab of Samaria was disappointed. He wanted - coveted - a particular piece of land and tried to purchase it for a vegetable garden. Naboth, the owner, refused. He was right to do so in terms of the culture and religious understanding of the time, because land was kept within the family in perpetuity; it was his ancestral inheritance, his place of belonging, and his legacy to his family after him. King Ahab's response was to sulk. He went to bed, turned away from other people, and refused food.

That was hardly a mature response, especially to such a trivial matter, but worse was to come. His wife Jezebel (whose name has become synonymous with evil women) arranged to have Naboth accused falsely, and he was stoned to death. Ahab grasped the land - at a terrible price. The story is recounted in 1 Kings 21.

Disappointment is of course not wrong - it's a normal human reaction when things don't go as we had hoped. But our response to disappointment says a great deal about us. It betrayed Ahab as selfish and spoilt, and whilst that may be an extreme reaction, we can probably all understand it. That in turn helps us to be more self-aware when things don't go our way, and to resolve to handle disappointment with greater maturity and grace.

One of my heroes is William of Glasshampton. Fr William Sirr SDC (Society of the Divine Compassion) was working in London's East End when in 1918, he answered a call to a life of prayer.

A stable block which had formerly served a large house, by then demolished, was made available to him. It was in rolling Worcestershire countryside, a mile from the nearest road, and in a ruinous state. It had been a beautiful building and was both spacious and quasi-monastic, being built around three sides of a garden - but it was in a severely dilapidated condition, and bitterly cold. Fr William hoped it would become the home of a new monastic community.

For almost twenty years he lived and prayed here, leading a life of silence and contemplation, prayer and work. It was a hard life of poverty and holiness, and those who came to test out their own vocation to a monastic life learned much from him, but always moved on elsewhere. He repaired the building and became well-known as a spiritual director, but his dream of a community died with him in 1937. The future of Glasshampton was thrown into doubt.

Ten years after his death, the Franciscans were invited to use the property. It became the monastery of St Mary at the Cross, the inscription over the entrance reading 'There stood by the cross of Jesus his mother'. The focus is on contemplation; the house is a place of retreat, prayer, stillness, and waiting on God. Fr William's dream has thus been fulfilled. He was faithful to his calling and prepared the way for the community which was to follow, even though he died believing that he had failed in that respect.

Such perseverance is a rare quality, perhaps more so nowadays in a world of consumer choice and the endless search for self-fulfilment. It echoes the faith about which the author of the letter to the Hebrews wrote when reflecting on the lives of Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob: 'All of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.' It challenges us to live according to what is right, according to God's call to us - and of course that means we have first to learn what is right and to discern that call. Persevering in the life of faith, despite whatever hardships and temptations come our way, and doing so even when we feel ourselves to be failing allows God's grace to be revealed; and although we may never see the fruits of our discipleship in this life, we can be assured that nothing is wasted within the providence of God.

Jesus, good above all other,
Gentle child of gentle mother,
In a stable born our brother:
Give us grace to persevere.

The white smoke pours out. The wait's over. 

The wait's over for 1.2 billion Roman Catholics around the world, and for others curious, anxious, or otherwise interested to see who will take on the huge responsibility of leading their Church. Meanwhile newly-elected Pope Francis is in the 'room of tears', coming to terms with the news of his appointment as he vests in the robes of office. Pray for him: he'll need all the help he can get.

The wait wasn't over-long this time round. Three days is the average; in 1268 it took closer to three years. That's a tremendously long wait.

We all know what waiting is like. Waiting for exam results - at least we know when they're due to come. Waiting for the result of an interview - for a job, for a university place. Waiting for news of someone in hospital, undergoing an operation, or unconscious after an accident. Waiting for the arrival of a baby. And in all these situations, we're powerless to do any more - other than pray.

But there are the everyday times of waiting too - times we resent, times which frustrate us. We're stuck on the motorway as the traffic grinds to a halt, powerless to do anything other than wait. We're at the station or the airport; our train or flight has been delayed or cancelled, and we're waiting to find out what happens next. We're in a call centre queue, waiting as the minutes tick by to speak to somebody real about our problem, whatever it may be. We're waiting for medical attention although our appointment time has already passed.

We're waiting for God. For God to answer our prayers. To deliver us from some situation which causes us trouble or grief. To bless us with some gift of his loving mercy. To work for good in the lives of those who are on our hearts, or in the places of violence and despair.

In 1982, WH Vanstone, by then a Canon Residentiary of Chester Cathedral, wrote a perceptive book called 'The Stature of Waiting.' He observes the transition in the Gospels from Jesus taking the initiative, being clearly in charge of what is happening, to Jesus being handed over to the will of others: 'from working to waiting and from freedom to constraint.' Yet the waiting and the constraint are a necessary part of his life and Passion, a consequence of the love he offers and the Kingdom he proclaims. In Jesus, we discern the 'God who waits' in love on his creation - just as a naturalist waits to observe that which is beyond his control, or a scientist waits to see whether his experiment will succeed, or a lover waits for the response or the presence of the loved one. He concludes that there is dignity and meaning in waiting, and that the recognition of this needs to complement the dignity and meaning of sharing in the more obvious and active work of God.

Vanstone is better-known for another book, 'Love's Endeavour, Love's Expense.' The title is taken from a poem he wrote as part of the book. It speaks of the helplessness of Jesus on the cross: the waiting which is a consequence of his love. And it's worth meditating on the poem, which speaks eloquently of the focus and therefore the vocation to love of Pope Francis, of the Roman Church, and indeed of all Christian people.

Morning glory, starlit sky,
Soaring music, scholars' truth,
Flight of swallows, autumn leaves,
Memory's treasure, grace of youth:

Open are the gifts of God, 
Gifts of love to mind and sense;
Hidden is love's agony,
Love's endeavour, love's expense.

Love that gives, gives ever more,
Gives with zeal, with eager hands,
Spares not, keeps not, all outpours,
Ventures all, its all expends.

Drained is love in making full,
Bound in setting others free,
Poor in making many rich,
Weak in giving power to be.

Therefore he who shows us God
Helpless hangs upon the tree,
And the nails and crown of thorns
Tell of what God's love must be.

Here is God: no monarch he,
Throned in easy state to reign;
Here is God, whose arms of love,
Aching, spent, the world sustain.

(WH Vanstone)